


Snuggle

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:42:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29667483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Connor gets a plush dog for a minute.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43





	Snuggle

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Despite leaving the precinct early himself, Connor’s not surprised to see Hank’s car in the driveway when he gets home. It’s already late, far past their regular work hours, but Connor doesn’t require rest between shifts and is always willing to put in more for Markus’ movement. Sometimes it’s in national marches, sometimes media interviews, sometimes just sitting on the new council they’ve formed, and offering another opinion on how to go about their slow reach for rights. The meetings can range from five minutes to several hours, even when all of them are fully charged and at peak operating efficiency. Most of them have nowhere else to go and can afford to spend half the night in lengthy debates, but Connor much prefers to get home before Hank’s stilted sleep schedule kicks in. 

There have been times when Hank’s crashed on the couch immediately after getting home, passing out during a basketball game or with his head in Connor’s lap and Connor’s fingers in his hair. The living room light’s still on by the time Connor reaches the door, but Hank often forgets to turn it off. It’s full-on-dark outside, but Connor doesn’t need the dim streetlamps to find the lock. He lets himself in and immediately picks up the hum of water through old pipes—Hank must be in the shower. 

For a split second, the options scroll through Connor’s mind—he could go prepare the bedroom, could perch on the couch and patiently wait out Hank’s washroom time, or he could check if the door is unlocked and possibly let himself inside. He doesn’t _need_ showers himself, but there is a certain pleasure in sharing them—in squeezing into a confined space with Hank, naked and wet, as fresh as humans can come. 

Sumo sneezes by the coffee table. It draws Connor’s attention, and something new catches his eye. There’s a small, motionless dog lying limp across the middle cushion. Zooming in results in stitching and a material breakdown. It’s a stuffed animal. Connor’s seen young children outside cuddling stuffed animals before, and while the action seems to bring them some comfort, it doesn’t fit in with Hank’s usual behavioral pattern. 

Hank isn’t close to anyone with children in the appropriate age range for stuffed toys, and Connor can’t think of who else it could possibly be for. Besides, the only person Hank proclaims to be truly close to, close enough to procure gifts for, would be Connor.

The toy appears to be a Yorkshire Terrier with close-cropped fur and big round eyes. Several of its features are exaggerated, but it’s clearly meant to be a dog.

Connor likes dogs. 

Hank knows that.

The only logical conclusion is that Hank’s gotten _him_ a dog. Perhaps it’s meant to be his Sumo. It’s an artificial Sumo, but Connor’s artificial himself. He’s also intelligent, unlike an actually inanimate object, but perhaps Hank didn’t think that far. 

Maybe it’s meant to be a plus that Connor doesn’t have to take care of it—walk it and feed it and groom it, as he already essentially has two jobs and an adult human being to take of. He often encourage Hank to take more walks, he cooks for Hank as often as possible, and he grooms Hank whenever Hank lets him—Hank’s salt-and-pepper beard would eventually consume his entire face otherwise, and Connor would have no bare skin to kiss. 

Crossing the room and maneuvering around their dog—maybe just Hank’s dog—Connor collects the toy and takes its seat on the couch. It’s light in his hands, though stuffed firmly enough to retain much of its shape when he lifts it. The eyes are bulbous and aimless but do bear a distance resemblance to Sumo’s. Its mouth is stitched closed and appears to be smiling—something unusual for an animal but typical of human design. Its scent has the same chemical makeup of the drug store across from the precinct, where Hank must’ve purchased it, but it also bears faint traces of Hank’s cologne. 

Enticed by that, Connor pulls it towards his face and inhales, not to breathe, but to intake more data. His arms wrap around it while he holds it high, giving it a shallow squeeze—the kind he might bestow on Hank in the middle of the night or when they’re alone in the break room. He doesn’t feel the innate urge to _hug things_ , as human children do, but he does bizarrely enjoy embracing Hank. Hugging the toy isn’t nearly as satisfying as hugging Hank, who can squirm in his grip and breathe against his ear and radiate natural heat, flooding Connor’s sensors with new details to process. But perhaps the toy can be used for practice. Connor’s often heard he’s too stiff—still notably _mechanical_. 

Footsteps echo down the short hallway, and Connor realizes the water shut off three minutes and forty-one seconds ago. Hanks turns the corner and stops by the end of the couch, done up in gray boxers and an old T-shirt, his hair damper than Connor would’ve dried it. 

Connor should’ve joined Hank in the shower after all. But then he wouldn’t have found his gift and been able to fully examine it before Hank returned. He opens his mouth to express his gratitude—as odd a choice as the gift is, he does like it, because _it’s a gift from Hank_ , and any show of affection from his Lieutenant is invaluable. 

Before Connor can speak, Hank’s bent down, frowning, and plucked the dog out of Connor’s grip. He asks, “What’re you doing with that? It’s for Sumo.” And he tosses it at the floor, where it lands half on top of Sumo’s paw, and the enormous dog turns to sniff its head. 

Connor instantly realigns his thought process. It wasn’t for him. Hank isn’t telling him he needs to hug better or get a separate Sumo, and Hank didn’t buy anything especially for him. There’s a flicker of disappointment that Connor can’t repress as quickly as he’d like. Sometimes, it’s unfortunate to be a deviant. 

Then he bolsters himself by remembering that he doesn’t need a toy to hug, because he can hug _Hank_ any time, can pet Hank and even lift him up and carry him around. There is absolutely nothing the toy could’ve given him that Hank can’t. 

Connor doesn’t bother answering Hank’s question. Instead he stands up, still dressed in his full uniform with his shoes still on, and he descends on his bed-ready detective. He wraps both arms around Hank’s wide middle and presses them flush together, his chin hooking over Hank’s shoulder and his nose burying in Hank’s hair. His shampoo purports to be scentless, but to Connor, it smells like _Hank._

Hank mutters, “Uh... nice to see you too, I guess,” and reaches around to pat Connor’s back. For two solid minutes, Connor stands there, savouring the contact. Then Hank gives him a nudge that Connor knows mean to let go.

He does, though he doesn’t step back. He stays close enough to measure every one of Hank’s pores. He report, “I find you superior to Sumo’s stuffed animal anyway.” 

Hank lifts his eyebrows. Clearly, he didn’t know he was in a contest. Sumo abruptly bats the toy across the carpet, then pushes up to plod after it. Connor would like to think that if Sumo were a judge, he’d pick the same winner. Hank grunts, “Thanks?”

Connor says _you’re welcome_ by pecking Hank on the nose. Then he steps out of his shoes and starts undressing, needing to strip down, so when they climb into bed a moment later, there’s plenty of skin to kiss.


End file.
